


"I gave it away"

by holyhouses (MIKTRONIK)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Met Before The Fall (Good Omens), Aziraphale just misses his mate, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley Was an Archangel Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley is a Fly, Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), Crowley's wings were always black, Established Relationship, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), It's not his fault it takes him 6000 years to figure out who his mate is, Kissing, M/M, Mating Bond, Memory Alteration, Mutual Pining, No beta we saunter like Crowley, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), The Fall (Good Omens), Worried Crowley (Good Omens), but our bois have no idea it's established, fight me, if that makes any sense at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25549567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MIKTRONIK/pseuds/holyhouses
Summary: What happens when the tables are turned, and the other entity involved in the slowest burn in the universe uses an angel's first words spoken to him? Why does Aziraphale feel so drawn to Crowley, even when he's aching for his long-lost mate? And WHY THE HELL IS THAT DUCK FOLLOWING ME?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 76





	1. The Sword

**Author's Note:**

> SOOO uhhhhh... this is my first fanfic on here. Ever. So if you have nice comments, constructive criticism, etc. to offer, I would be happy to receive them. Please, nothing rude. It makes me upsetti :(

_“Here,” the archangel said, gracefully handing the young Principality what was to be his new sword— a long, beautiful thing wreathed in roaring Holy Fire. “I am no soldier, I am an awful swordswoman. I’m sure you’ll have better use for it than I ever will.”_

_The principality was astounded. “Are… are you sure?”_

_“Of course,” she said, and although he couldn’t remember exactly what her face looked like, the principality was sure she had been smiling, “Aziraphale.”_

_The lovely sound of her voice morphed into a scream, and the warm hilt of his sword was being torn from his grip by a horrible angel snarling, “Give me that. I need to teach this traitor a lesson”, and he was forced to watch as this lovely archangel, his friend, his_ mate, _was forced to her knees, her thick braid, which had before trailed to the ground, sliced off at the shoulder._

_Aziraphale turned and ran before he was forced to watch her wings being burned irreparably, so as to keep her from returning, and rushed downstairs. And as he looked out the window, he saw her._

_Falling._

_He rushed out, caught her limp, sobbing frame as it spilled ichor all over his feathers._

_“You’re going to forget me,” she whispered. “Let go. Let me forget too.”_

_“I want you to remember_ something _,” he said in return. “Your name. I want you to remember your name.”_

_“Why?”_

_“It will be our code word,” he said. “When I remember you, I will say your name to you, and that’s how we’ll know each other.”_

_She swallowed. “Alright,” she finally conceded. “Miracle me, angel.”_

_He did, and her head dropped as she went unconscious. And he carried her to the ground, where he deposited her near where there would, in a few thousand years, be a lovely park with a blue lake full of ducks._

_Tears pooled in his eyes as he took flight. “I will never forget you,” he whispered back to her. But when his eyes turned back to Heaven, the memory of her grin was already fading…_

When Aziraphale woke up, he was crying. “Angel?” came the soft, curious, worried voice at his shoulder. With a start, the angel realized he was in Crowley’s apartment, it was just after the Notpocalypse, and he was sleeping with his back to his undeniably gorgeous demon friend. “You alright?”

“Just… just thinking,” Aziraphale managed, rolling over to stare at the ceiling.

“Dreaming?” the demon said gently, almost as if correcting him.

Aziraphale nodded. “Mhm.”

There was a pause. “About what?”

“The Fall.”

Aziraphale could almost _sense_ Crowley frowning. “ _You_ have nightmares about that? You didn’t even Fall.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Yes, thank you for that very helpful observation,” he said, rather testily. But then he softened his tone. “It was my mate. She Fell, and sometimes… I miss her very much.”

“Oh,” Crowley breathed out. Aziraphale turned to face him, saw his eyes glowing golden and beautiful. “I didn’t know you had a mate.”

Aziraphale’s face crumpled in the dark. “I’ve never mentioned her before, it hurts so much. I don’t _remember_ her, Crowley. After the Fall, the Almighty made all the angels forget the Fallen. Her name, her face, even her aura— I’ve forgotten everything. I promised her that I would remember, but I _didn’t_.”

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley murmured, and then he was pulling the angel swiftly into a hug. Aziraphale froze slightly. Crowley had never hugged him like this before. “I can’t even— nh. And here I was, thinking I was the only one still hurting from the war.”

Aziraphale melted into the demon's touch, hugged back so hard he thought he imagined Crowley’s ribs bending under it. “You’re my best friend, Crowley.”

“Yeah, I know,” Crowley said. He was aiming for nonchalant but landed closer to fondness. “Same for me.”


	2. The Church

Aziraphale was at church.

He didn’t often go— the only times he went were when he asked the Lord to send him some sort of sign, _any_ sign, that would lead him to his beloved.

This church was smaller, but beautiful, with stained glass windows depicting Jesus’ birth, his death, and the seven archangels. The walls were made of whitewashed stone, and the light streaming through the colored glass dappled the interior red and blue and gold.

None of this interested Aziraphale, however. He walked up the aisle singlemindedly, wringing his hands. He knelt at the altar, folded his hands, and looked up. “So, you know why I’m here, Lord. I've been praying to you for millennia now, asking about... _her._ She's my mate, and I miss her, and I feel terribly upset that I don't know anything about how she's been this whole time. Please, just give me some sort of sign, something so that I know she’s out there, and she’s alright. I love her.”

He looked around at the windows, lips quirking slightly into a grimace at Gabriel’s, which depicted him as looking equally (and insanely) benevolent and beautiful. He also recognized Sandalphon, Uriel, Michael. There were a few others. He squinted at their name plaques.

Nothing came to him, no divine flash of light and understanding, no voice booming, LOOK THUS, AZIRAPHALE, AND SEE YOUR MATE. He sighed, got to his feet, bowed, and left silently. A dove tried to fly in through one of the beautiful windows as he was leaving, crashing headfirst into the glass, but he barely even noticed.


	3. The Name

“I know that as one of Beelzebub’s you have a bow,” Aziraphale said one day, about a week after the Apocanope, “but what about your Heaven-issued weapon? What happened to that? Did they take it before they sent you over the edge?”

“Nah,” Crowley drawled from his spot draped over the couch, turned boneless, and almost fell off. They were both just slightly drunk, not completely inebriated yet, though. Aziraphale’s head felt pleasantly fuzzy. “I gave it _away._ ”

It took a moment for Aziraphale to understand, and then he started at the sound of those words, _his_ words, coming out of Crowley’s mouth. “What?”

Crowley grinned one of those rare, real, embarrassed grins. “M’not joking angel. I hate swords, they’re too heavy. Actually, I'm not very good with weapons in general, but...”

Crowley kept talking, but Aziraphale suddenly couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his own ears.

**I gave it away. I hate swords, they’re too heavy.**

**_I am an awful swordswoman._ **

_She’d had black wings. “My crow,” he used to call her._

_The sword was wreathed in Holy Flame— what it damaged could never return._

**“I can’t grow it any longer than this,”** _Crowley had said, sadly gesturing to his shoulder-length curls._

_Her braid, sliced off at the shoulder—_

_She was an angel of creativity, and who was more creative and imaginative than—_

_The angel in the stained glass had long red hair, a buttery-golden aura, the same color as Crowley’s_ eyes _. In her hand, she held a sword, a_ flaming _sword._

**_I’m sure you’ll have better use for it than I ever will._ **

**I gave it away.**

_The name on the plaque, under the window. There was a name._

_Her name._

**Just a ‘J’, really.**

_No._

_No. It stood for something…_

_It stood for..._

_“Jophiel.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know anything about the Archangel Jophiel (no, I didn't just make her up), I highly recommend reading up on her. It's crazy how easily her attributes fit into Crowley's personality-- and his gorgeous looks. Jophiel is the archangel of beauty, after all.
> 
> Also, kudos already??? I love you all!


	4. The Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two are idiots, but I love them anyway. This chapter features lots of kissing and a really unfair tickle fight (hey, it's not the demon's fault his corporation is so ticklish in human form!).

At that faint whisper, Crowley froze, his golden eyes wide and fixed directly on Aziraphale. The angel let out a shuddering breath. He inhaled again, with some difficulty. “Was that your name… before?”

Crowley’s lips quivered. “Yes,” he whispered. “It’s also…”

“What the ‘J’ stands for?” Aziraphale’s lips curved into a dry smile. “I’d figured as much.”

A rough laugh escaped Crowley’s lips. His hands were visibly trembling, and his eyes were shining treacherously. “Angel…”

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” Aziraphale finally choked out, crossing the room to sit on the sofa where Crowley was sprawled, pulling the demon into his lap, tears finally streaming down both of their faces as they both leaned in at the same time for a kiss, then another and another and another. “My love, my mate. It was _you_ all along. I’m so _glad_ it’s you.” He reached up, rubbing Crowley’s back where his wings always appeared.

“Mmh,” Crowley said through a kiss. “Me too, angel— _oh!”_ His jaw suddenly dropped open as Aziraphale pressed into the center of his back and his enormous black wings sprang open on reflex with a loud _whoosh._

The two supernatural beings stared at each other for a few seconds, silent, until Aziraphale’s lips pursed and his chest started shaking. Crowley saw his face, tried to stay straight-faced and silent, and failed, snorting out a single little, adorable (though Aziraphale would never admit to Crowley's face that it was) laugh. And that was it. They both completely lost it, dissolving into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. And then Aziraphale started tickling Crowley's ribs while Crowley screeched ("NOOOOO, you absolute bastard!" "I know, darling"), practically convulsing with laughter, tears streaming down his face, and the two of them rolled off the couch and landed in a heap with a muffled _thud_ and a quiet "ouch!"

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale, looking down at Crowley, who was flushed and breathless still. "I haven't hurt you badly, have I?"

"No, angel," Crowley said, the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling again. Those golden eyes were soft and shining just so, and Aziraphale couldn't resist lifting one of the demon's thin hands in his own and pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

"I love you," the angel whispered, almost reverently. "So much."

Crowley's eyes somehow softened even more. "Yeah, I know, angel. I love you too."

The two leaned in for another slow kiss, and if couples all through London suddenly experienced a wave of renewed passion, and all the ducks in St. James' park suddenly took off a week early for their winter migration, emitting lots of embarrassed quacking, hardly anyone noticed.


End file.
